


Not a Compromise

by firjii



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Early Relationship, F/M, Gen, Hands, Kirkwall, Lyrium Tattoos, Nervous Fenris, Pre-Relationship, The Hanged Man - Freeform, Touch Phobia, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2019-02-27 17:55:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13253562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firjii/pseuds/firjii
Summary: Confused but encouraged by Hawke’s friendship and desperate to re-learn the habits stolen from him years earlier, Fenris realizes that he craves a surprisingly simple - yet for him, infinitely risky - gesture.Set sometime after Fenris first acknowledges his feelings for Hawke but long before their first night together.





	Not a Compromise

It’s easy to hide it in Kirkwall.

With so many damned scuffles and thieves and criminals, there’s really no point in taking the armor off, even in Hightown. Those who don’t dare to fight him or haven’t seen him in combat notice the armor and respect him all the more. It’s never an entirely bad thing. Most Kirkwallers’ assumptions are both fitting and honorable: he’s a hired bodyguard, a soldier from a faraway regiment no one in the city is familiar with – or maybe just an elite mercenary on assignment. No one questions it. It’s easy to hide it in Kirkwall.

But as he steps out the door on this blurry, clammy morning – as his breath floats above himself too soon on each exhale and his throat struggles to stave off a strange, wordless noise – he senses change in earnest, or at least the tiny shift in the world that grants room for change. It plagues him, and he must be rid of it now. It’s such a little thing, after all – or it _should_ be.

He wants to remember. He’s only surprised that he wants to remember _this_. He shouldn’t want to. Its true meaning deserted him long ago. At best, he sees it as a mockery. At worst –

No, there’s no point in admitting _that_. He left it behind. He left _them_ behind. Kirkwall is far from free, but it’s enough for him. He’s been happy with “enough.”

Until Hawke.

She said things that – things that made him think instead of blame. His thoughts eventually turned into ideas, questions, challenges. A new one – more than a thought, better than an idea, but whose challenge? – drives him to leave the mansion earlier than usual for the day. She’ll be there this time of day. She always is. Varric began the tradition, joking that the middle of the week needed an occasion to bridge the divide between calm dreariness and frantic fighting. She’ll be there. She always is.

Between the armor and the sweltering, salty air, the skin on his hands labors to breathe on this morning. If it’s this warm an hour after sunrise, midday will be excruciating. Yes. Today is a good day to test it. He has a fine, practical excuse in case – just in case she laughs.

His perfect stride alternates between hesitation and hurry as he makes the long march. His steps have a proud bounce through Hightown. He even returns a merchant dwarf’s gruff greeting with a curt nod and grunt. But his feet quiet themselves a little as he descends through the city. His knees stiffen as waves of – embarrassment? – prod him into turning around, or perhaps collapsing like a silly girl or an invalid.

No. He will _not_ go back. The notion has pestered him for two weeks. Hawke’s wit may be ill-timed on occasion, but at least she has a decisive way in most matters. He thought _he_ already had it, too, but there have been too many – _irregularities_ to ignore.

His striding slows to an amble, then a saunter, then a series of pauses punctuated by occasional forward movements. Hawke lies to protect those who have found true love. She loathes slavers. She bankrupts herself giving money to orphans and poor mothers. Granted, she openly defends most mages, but – but she doesn’t _act_ like a mage.

She doesn’t act like a lot of things. She defies his understanding of the world without speaking a word against him. She destroys his doubt with a single smile – and then renews it by assuming that he knows all that she does. But that isn’t her fault. He refuses to blame her for that.

No, she won’t laugh at him.

He walks on, resolve mustered.

It’s a strange little request, really. So many of Hawke’s actions and habits are better suited to great deeds, or at least equal ones – decisions that will reward her in some way, even though she has sometimes refused a reward if the person she aided was deserving. What reward is there in _this_?

But Hawke is the only one he can ask this of. She is the _only_ one who might –

He wants to remember this one gesture, and not just the meaning behind it. He can wield a sword thrice bigger than any Templar’s. He can crush a bone with his combat maneuvers, the deadly dance he taught himself more from need than desire. He can rip an organ from someone’s very chest without any help from a weapon.

But – but sometimes, his fingers weary of that. He supposes that _anyone_ would eventually. Some men fight because they long to smell the blood. But he never did. There are so many other things in the world. He wants to remember them now.

He finally reaches the shabby tavern’s shabby door. His breath catches one last time, partly from the rank smells within – but partly not.

When Hawke sees him, she grins broadly, warmly, and Fenris almost loses his mettle – but only for an instant. She promptly waves him over to her table with her customary flourish. He clears his throat to hide his cavernous swallow, glad that she is out of earshot to hear the awkward noise that accompanies it.

“The esteemed warrior,” she chirps as he sits down across from her.

“Hawke,” he grunts promptly.

“Varric was just telling me about the –”

Fenris blinks, caught off balance by the dazzling string of alliterations that follow from her mouth, his superb fluency in Common suddenly faltering. “Excuse me?”

She repeats it flawlessly.

“Ah.” He nods. Good, he notes: if she can manage verbal acrobatics like those twice in such short order, the drink hasn’t taken effect on her yet, or else she chose to abstain from it today.

Hawke and Varric gently bicker for a few moments, but their subject eludes Fenris. They both adore sarcasm so much that his reflex is to block out their conversation. He flicks his eyes about. The tavern’s mood is quiet, even for this time of day. Isabela is absent, possibly still sleeping. Anders is rarely here before lunch, if at all. Aveline, of course, is nowhere to be found since this is a tavern and she daren’t risk dereliction of duty so early in the morning. Merrill is poised on a bench on the far side of the room, eager to watch an old lush hone his rodent-killing technique.

Yes. This will do.

He waits for the talk to subside, but Varric is especially long-winded today. Fenris nods several times as the dwarf’s story unfolds. He even smirks once, feeble pretending that he has come here for the talk rather than the company. But finally, something in his face shifts - just a twitch, really, more of an attempt to suppress a sneeze than a reaction to the conversation.

Hawke notices. “And what do _you_ think about it?” she asks him, not snidely but in the bright and eager tone she had so blithely used when they’d first met – her fearless one, since she had used it mere moments after witnessing Fenris unburden someone of a vital organ.

He swallows. His stomach churns and he is immensely grateful that he scarcely ate this morning. His hands, so carefully situated on the table, slowly clench and the spikes of his gauntlets scrape the battered wood – and then he breathes again. “I –” he croaks. “I –” On his second failure, his brow turns to self-scorn as his head jabs downward at an unnatural angle. “I must speak to you,” he blurts.

Hawke’s eyes change sooner than the snap of fingers. Fenris tries to look at her – _tries_ – but is too busy checking for Varric’s reaction. Hawke’s eyes train on Fenris steadily, quietly, searchingly, but without a trace of a demand, not like – not like anyone else in the world.

Varric only smiles and softly squeaks his chair back across the floor as he stands. “I feel like another bowl of the mystery swill. You two go talk about – things.”

For the first time in a _very_ long time, Hawke hesitates. “Varric, I don’t think this is a quick matter.”

Varric raises a jovial hand. “Don’t worry yourselves about that,” he lilts knowingly. “Use my room.”

Fenris pitches a fierce glare and half a sneer in Varric’s direction, but Varric has already made for the barkeep.

They saunter through the main hallway and down the long corridor to Varric’s suite, narrowly avoiding bumping several hung-over residents on the way. Once they reach it, the door scarcely closes correctly.

He moves away from her. There isn’t a reason to – her stance is neutral, her shoulders neither rounded nor squared – but the air in the room seems hardest to breathe in her vicinity.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, neither forcefully nor flippantly.

“I –” He strains for an excuse. He has already forgotten. His eyes scan the floor rapid-fire. “I may have injured my hand when we cleared those spiders from the last cave. I was hoping that you could help me – assess if I need tending from a healer.”

She pauses. Her face is neutral but utterly unfathomable.

He swallows.

She starts to bridge the distance between them.

His shoulders arch back a fraction, but his feet remain staunchly in place.

She stops, noticing it – or perhaps content to stay where she is. “You _could_ just ask Anders.”

“I know.”

“He’s never refused someone in need.”

“But I –” He stops himself. His head droops and he growls into his chest. He paces.

He feels her watching him. He always does – but her watching is simple, honest, not a threat. He can abide it.   

“Your markings,” she murmurs after a moment.

He stops short. “I – yes,” he sighs shortly.

“I’m –”

But he knows the words before she can finish. He glares at her – and then regrets it. He flicks his eyes away and makes for the door. “I apologize. It was a foolish thought.”

She hurries to block him from leaving – her scrawny, underdeveloped, half-starving mage frame _blocks_ him. _Him_.

He blinks and tries – _tries_ – to look at her.

She frowns. “You’re not a fool.” The words pour from her effortlessly, like water, like the coin she gives away so freely to the poor or the blood she spills to punish injustice and tyranny. Those words are the permission that he sought – and the request. She touches a bare section of his arm – only slightly, only fleetingly, only enough to guide him to a chair at the table.

He settles himself, his knees bent rigidly and his feet curled under the chair – but only to stave the incessant tapping of his toes.

She sits down, across from him rather than next to him, but still close – the closest he has ever been to her in a moment not occupied by combat. “Can you –” She stops uncertainly, points at the gauntlets instead of finishing the question. “Should I –”

“Please,” he blurts with a nod, but then he swallows. Has he spoken too quickly? “I –” he begins. “Yes.” He sighs to himself, barely blunting the edge of the teeming storm collecting in his brow.

She unbuckles the gauntlet, somehow never bumping the armor against his skin or pulling anything too tightly. But when she moves to take it off, it slides across the top of his hand.

He winces, but only in one arm, and only from his forearm down. All else remains still. In Tevinter, too much of his life depended on being able to defer, direct, channel, _translate_ a pain reflex. But still, he winces.

Hawke notices but doesn’t waver. “You never quite explained how you came by armor like this.”

“No,” he mumbles. “I didn’t.” He stares at a lacy snatch of cobweb on the wall, a rug on the floor, _anything_ but her. It happened too quickly, and now he must adjust his plan.

Hawke’s eyes dull half a fraction, but her gaze remains fixed on him, intent, interested, curious. He can feel it. He always does. “There’s nothing wrong with your hand, Fenris.”

His mouth twitches. His eyes flick faster. “No.”

He didn’t care before – not until Hawke came. He wants to remember.

“You could have asked me sooner.”

He blinks, his thoughts already lapsed into a blur despite the short span of time. His pulse twists twice. What did he miss? What did he do? What will –  

He looks at her – he _tries_. “What?” His voice jigs, both accusation and defense, an unusually high tone that he has forgotten he is capable of and ashamed – an instant too late – that he has displayed.

She chuckles voicelessly, but not – no, not ridicule, not a dare. Something else, but one of the things he forgot. Only a benign exhale ribbons the air.

He waits for the prickling fear to come, but – but she isn’t like that. She only punishes the guilty. She only scorns the deserving.

But still, his eyes dance to the corners of the room.

“I only haven’t said anything before now because I know you don’t like to be asked,” she murmured. “It’s not so easy – refusing. That’s why I don’t ask.”

He rips his hand away from the table. He leans back in his chair. His gloved hand fusses with the bare one, just barely. “Is it so obvious?”

She folds her hands on the table. “When you come, it’s by choice. When you stay, it’s by choice.” She sighs, ragged at the edges, but not – not in anger. “If you want something, tell me. You’ve saved my life more often than I’ve saved yours.”

He stares at the tattoos, unimaginably thin but unimaginably stubborn layers of lyrium spanning most of the length of each finger. He didn’t care before – not until Hawke came. He wants to remember. He _wants_ to. He –

He can’t.

But he does it all the same.

He unlocks her fingers and holds one of her hands fast. He waits for her to pull away or glare at him in surprise. She doesn’t.

He looks at her. His eyes don’t flinch away this time. Green – her eyes are green. He’d forgotten. Where has he seen a color like that? A gem? A potion? Another thing he can’t remember.

She sits as still as a statue, but far from lifeless. Her pulse is perhaps a mite faster for a moment, but hand is patient, her fingers quiet. She doesn’t stare down at the hideous markings. She doesn’t pull away. She doesn’t try to fold his hand within her palms. She only sits there, waiting.

Like a beast slowly stalking prey – but no, it isn’t apt, he scorns himself for thinking it – he lets his fingers move enough that he can line up his hand against hers, palm against palm and finger against finger. It takes a long moment – several, even. And she knows – _somehow_ , she knows – exactly when to raise her forearm when he does his. They each prop their elbows on the table, palms flat against each other – not moving, not twitching. Only resting, the pressure of each arm maintaining the upward angle.

A ghost escapes him – a ghost of a chuckle, more like an exhale of relief, but enough to release the building tension in his shoulders. One corner of his mouth creases upward. Hawke smiles back. The other corner of his mouth raises a fraction. The movement is – unnecessary, strange. But he wants to remember that, too.

His knuckles bend – only a little, but they bend all the same. Slowly, slowly, like an enfeebled old man with rheumatism, his fingers lace with hers. He squeezes her hand – only a little. She returns it. She smiles wider, until her lips part and a slit of her teeth show. She –

He blinks. He frowns. His face is wet. Why? It isn’t fear. It isn’t sorrow. It –

His nerves engage. He remembers, but not what he meant to. He looks down. Three of her fingers are resting squarely on the marks. Three ripples of scalding rise up his wrist. But he has done what he meant to. He came here to face it. He must hold. He must stem it a little longer. One more moment. He must. He _must_. He can almost see it. He can almost reach it. He almost finds it. The scalding changes to freezing, then scorching, then – sparks? Yes, lightning sparks as strong as the ones in Hawke’s staff when she fights. But also as strong as –

He breaks the contact. He pulls away and stands hastily, his chair issuing a muffled protest against the floor. His gauntlet scrapes the table unmusically as he scoops it up.

“I–I’m sorry,” Hawke falters hurriedly as she stands. “I’m sorry. I didn’t meant to–”

He waves a hand to silence her. Remnants of sharp prickling remain, his untouched hand joining the offended one in sympathy. The marks are angry. They always are if someone touches them. It can be useful in battle – he knows this. It can rouse him to the last fierce blows when his friends are too battered to go on. But it will take hours for it all to quiet down, hours for him to forget the experience sufficiently to be able to think and act rationally again, never mind courteously.

But if he forgets the pain, he might also forget –

He shakes his head – not dismissively, not quickly, but in Hawke’s manner. “No. You did nothing. The blame is mine.”

“That’s not true. You should never say that.”

Her voice is a well of righteous anger. As ever, it overflows from her so much that he can almost see it in the air. She speaks both well and kindly, and he knows it. But he walks away from her. There is nothing more that can be done for now. Even if he does it in stages, he must steel himself against pain again. He _must_. In time – if Hawke wants more, and he knows that she does, her face is always so plain of motive – even _she_ will be a harbinger of pain. She will bring other things as well – _good_ things, not merely pleasant ones – but it is inevitable. If he wants to be with her – if he expects to ever do more than _this_ – 

His eyes shine, partly from pain, but partly something else. “I –”

He swallows. What else can he really say?

“Thank you, Hawke,” he manages. His candor hiccups, but he nods as calmly, smoothly, cordially as ever.

He refuses to look at Varric or Merrill as he leaves the tavern. He refuses to look at _anything_. He only glides out into the ocean-choked light of day, squinting from the ever-intense humidity. He has lived in Kirkwall for years, and yet he still finds it harder to abide than Tevinter’s heat.

He strains for a moment to catch his breath. He leans against the wall as he adjusts his gauntlet into place. The markings still protest, even against himself. They often _do_.

But he smiles. Against the enraged, confused nerves in his skin, he smiles. He looks down at the hand that Hawke blessed with a touch. He slowly makes a fist. Yes, he will remember the pain for hours.

He will also remember _her_ for hours.

It is enough. It _must_ be, though it seems like a mild cruelty just now. But – but perhaps it was _Hawke’s_ version of enough –

and that is far, far more than he has ever known.

He makes a quiet fist. He closes his eyes, still warm and wet from the pain – and something else.

A strangled sigh escapes him, the best he can do to hide the one sob he allows himself.

“Thank you,” he whimpers under his breath.


End file.
